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dirty-faced child exclaimed.
    The woman’s arching brows knit together and she shot a suspicious glance at James. “Shouldn’t I? He is your father.”
    “Because…” The child met James’s baffled expression with a hateful glare. “Because he beats me.”
    “I do no such thing! I’ve never once laid a hand on her,” James swore to Mrs. Churchill. “Though I’ve been sorely tempted to,” he added, advancing on Clarissa.
    But his neighbor stepped directly between him and his devious offspring. Shooting him a suspicious look she said to Clarissa, “What do you mean by ‘he beats me’?”
    “I don’t beat her!” James bit out.
    “He does! He does!” Like a chameleon Clarissa changed from accused thief to pitiful victim—and right along with her Mrs. Churchill turned from irate neighbor to protective mother.
    She crouched in front of Clarissa. “Has he hurt you?”
    “I have not hurt her!” James protested.
    Mrs. Churchill stood and rounded fiercely on him. “Be quiet, Lord Farley. Just be quiet and let me handle this.” Then once more she turned her back on him.
    James almost choked on his rage. By damn, but he was sorely tempted to throttle the gullible, interfering wench!
    “Now Izzy,” she said, as if he weren’t even there. “Tell me exactly what occurred.”
    James could not believe this was happening. His guttersnipe child, whom he’d saved from a wretched fate, was accusing him of treating her badly. Clutching her puppy, the other little girl stared wide-eyed at him, as if he were a demon complete with horns, a tail, and cloven feet.
    “He hit me with a strap,” Clarissa lied, sending him a resentful glare. “An’ he wouldn’t give me any supper. Nor any breakfast neither.”
    “You certainly are thin,” the woman commiserated with her.
    “She has a kitchen full of food,” James said with barely controlled temper. “Anything she might want.”
    Mrs. Churchill held up a hand to silence him, but her gaze remained on the child. “I’ll bet that strap must have hurt.”
    The child nodded, the very picture of desolation. “It was terrible; just terrible. I cried and cried, and begged him to stop. Only he wouldn’t.”
    “I never—” James began.
    “The bruises must be awful,” Mrs. Churchill went on.
    “Yes, and they hurt something fierce—” The girl broke off in mid-lie. In the same moment James realized where Mrs. Churchill’s line of questioning was headed.
    He studied the woman with grudging respect as she smoothed a hand over the child’s head. “Let me see those bruises, will you?”
    Frowning now, the girl shrugged her off. “I don’t want to.”
    “Why not?” Mrs. Churchill stared steadily at the now scowling child. “Could it be that perhaps you’re making this up?”
    Judging by the mulish expression on her face, James was sure Clarissa would maintain her lie. But she was nothing if not unpredictable. Without warning she spat, “Bugger off!” and started running up the hill toward Farley Park.
    For a moment he just stared after her. At least she was running toward her home and not away. But the confrontation depressed him anew as he recognized the magnitude of the task he’d set himself. Clarissa hated him. She fought him at every turn, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
    Beside him Mrs. Churchill cleared her throat. “We’ll be off then,” she said when he looked over at her. “I meant what I said when I invited her to visit me. I hope you’ll let her come.”
    He nodded. “Of course. And thank you.” He hesitated, then went on. “I want you to know that I’ve never laid a harsh hand on her. Never.”
    She gave a faint smile, just enough to make him study her more closely. “I know.” Then her smile faded. “The fact remains, however, that she doesn’t seem to like you very much. Not at all, in fact, and I have to wonder why.”
    Then not allowing him time to explain the situation, she turned, took her daughter’s hand, and